A Woman's Hand

You never know where the idea for a novel will come from. Sometimes, it comes in a brilliant flash of inspiration; more often than not, from long, deliberate meditation. Occasionally, however, a story will be borne out of personal experience.

Writing a novel based on things that really happened can be tricky in that life doesn’t always provide a convenient denouement, drawing all the loose strands of the plot together. Relationships usually fade without drama, without leaving that niggling feeling of What if? Real people seldom die, are killed, or commit suicide in a timely manner—plot devices which are overused in novels—and sadly, there are few happily-ever-afters in real life.

That said, something happened a few years ago that had me remembering a past life of sorts, a time when I was thirty and simultaneously dating a number of women. One of them would become my first wife, another would become the quintessential woman scorned, and a third would become the wretched casualty of my fickle heart. Fifteen years later that third woman would write to tell me that she would never ever, ever forgive me for what I did to her.

And so, I present a third novel based in Japan about the curious relationships that occur between an American man and Japanese women. Consider it an Act of Contrition. Unorthodox in structure, I hope this novella doesn’t feel like an Act of Contrition for the reader, too.

A few years before I remarried, I dated a cute girl off and on for about six months, six contentious months. Named, Kiku, after the Chrysanthemum flower, she had been betrothed to a young doctor who was too busy with his residency to “attend” to her. Whenever he did manage to find the time to take the poor girl out, he would inevitably doze off. Kiku was so starved for affection and sex that a simple kiss would really get her juices flowing. I remember that I would lie on my back, let her crawl up on top of me, and she would go and go and go and go.[1]Every time she spent an afternoon at my place—she was from a “good” family, and almost never spent the night—it was like she was trying to make up for lost time, trying to squeeze out as many orgasms as she could from one session . . .

Is there a purpose to this story, Peadar?

There is. About a year after we broke up for the nth and last time, I caught sight of Kiku in town. Same story: I was waiting for a traffic signal to change when I saw her across the street. She was about seven or eight months pregnant and my first thought was . . .

Dodged a bullet.

Yeah.

And what was your first thought upon seeing Akané with a baby?

Confusion. Confusion tinged with sadness.

So, you start asking around about Akané.

This time I must admit that I did. I went straight to Off Broadway and asked Stanley if Akané had been by recently.

“Your girlfriend?”

“My ex-girlfriend,” I correct.

“Oh, yeah,” he says with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Get this: she’s screwing that Yomiuri Giants slugger, Martinez.”

I shrug.

“You know, Martinez, that lard-ass from the Dominican Republic. The guy’s gotta be seven times heavier than Akané, twice as tall.”